


The Worst Romance In The World

by Joss_Teagan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gunplay, Guns, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Watersports, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joss_Teagan/pseuds/Joss_Teagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Reichenbach, a furious Sebastian Moran is mourning the loss of his beloved employer, Jim Moriarty. He decides to kidnap Sherlock's own partner in crime, John Waton and break him, expose him to horrors he's never experienced before. But he could never have foreseen what this violent path would lead him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Characters don't belong to me. No copyright infringement intended. And I can't believe I wrote this.

He had no sense of time. He'd been taken on a Wednesday afternoon, a trip to Tesco's to pick up some groceries and for some reason, rusks, the latest demand of Sherlock as he performed experiments for their latest case. Then a couple of men had asked him for directions and before he'd been able to react, had grabbed hold of him, forcing him into the van ambling down the road. He'd been bodily thrown in there, the doors had shut and then there had been darkness. He'd sensed the van moving as he beat his fists on the metal doors and screamed for help, but he had no idea where they were going or how long they'd been travelling. Sherlock would know. He'd deduce it. But John Watson was aware that he lacked Sherlock's mental skills so he'd settled down, planning to jump the men when they came to get him out.

But he hadn't been prepared for the needle they'd stuck in his arm as he'd been dragged out of the van, kicking and screaming. One jab into his forearm and the whole world had gone dark.

Now he was here, disorientated and dry-mouthed, handcuffed to a chair in the middle of the room. The naked bulb above his head cast a halo of dull, yellow light around him, which made seeing the rest of the room impossible. All he could tell was that he was sitting on a wooden chair that was bolted to the floor, and the room was big, far bigger than a room in a house or flat. His ankles were tied with rope, he could feel the rough fibres even through his socks.

A figure strode out of the gloom and he squinted, struggling to see. Soon enough, the person had approached him and he realised it was a man, tall and broad in stature, oddly familiar.

"John," the man said in an affable tone. He dragged a chair over to John and sat down. "Nice to see you again."

John looked back at him blankly. If it hadn't been for the drug, he knew he would have already been yelling blue murder at this man, but his brain felt so soft and sluggish, it was a struggle to concentrate.

"You too," was all he could think of to say, but it seemed to please the man- he laughed heartily and patted John fondly on the knee. John watched the muscles ripple in the man's bare arm and wondered if he'd known him from the army.

"You crack me up, doc. You really do. But you don't remember me, do you? Frankly, I'm a little insulted."

"This must be the strangest episode of This Is Your Life that I've ever seen," John shot back, feeling a little better now that he had something to concentrate on.

"Ha. Funny. Now, John, don't be silly. We've met before. I am Colonel Sebastian Moran. Remember now?"

"Moran…" Of course he remembered now. They'd met once, Sebastian was the talk of the camp, he'd somehow earned himself a dishonourable discharge. Everyone had a different theory why. John's one involved aliens.

"There we go. Things didn't go too well for me after the army kicked me out. What's a man to do? Nobody would employ me. Then I found my lucky break….Jim Moriarty."

John instinctively jumped, and the chair rocked on its hinges. Sebastian laughed. "That's the reaction a lot of people have when they hear his name. Or they used to. Before he…you know," Sebastian leant forward, looking right into John's eyes. The dog tags hanging on his white wife beater dangled in the air, an annoying little movement in John's peripheral vision. "-died." Sebastian finished, sitting back and crossing his arms. John flexed his hands, feeling the cold metal encircling his wrists.

"I'm beginning to see what you're doing here. But it wasn't my or Sherlock's fault. Moriarty shot himself that day, we couldn't have stopped him, I wasn't, I wasn't-" he'd started to speed up for Sebastian had pulled up a gun from his waistband. "I didn't do anything- I DIDN'T HOLD THE GUN TO HIS HEAD, MORAN!"

"IT WAS HIS MOUTH!" Sebastian roared back. "He held the gun to his mouth! Learn your facts, Johnny-" John saw what was about to happen before it occurred, but he was powerless to prevent it; Sebastian cuffed him with the butt of the gun. John's head snapped back and blurred coloured splodges swam in his vision. When he was finally able to raise his head, he ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth to check no teeth had knocked out and he tasted blood, his own. As the metal had impacted with his skull, he'd bitten his own tongue so hard it bled.

"Maybe I should shoot you," Sebastian was saying, turning the gun over and over in his hands. "Teach you what it feels like." He stood up and circled John's chair, saying nothing. John ignored him, trying to wet the lips of his painfully dry mouth. An aftereffect of the drug, he supposed, but that knowledge didn't help his sore throat. He coughed violently, eyes watering.

That got Sebastian's attention. He grabbed John's face, tilting his head up. John blinked against the harsh light, heard the sound of a zip being pulled down.

"Thirsty? I know how to wet your whistle."

He closed his eyes and mouth as the warm, wet moisture ran down his face, dampening his collar. Even if he hadn't heard Sebastian's flies being undone, he would have known what the psychopathic sniper had doused him with, by the pungent smell.

Spluttering and still coughing, John wasn't aware of the bag until it was over his head. Some rough, woven fabric, he could only see vague shapes and it blocked out most of the light.

"Night, night, Johnny. Wonder how much old Sherlock will pay to get you back!" There was the click of a light, and a door, and then John was alone.


	2. Chapter 2

“So,” Colonel Moran sat down on the chair again, a bottle of water in his hand. “How are we doing?”

John narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He was still tied to the chair, but now with the smell of stale ammonia hanging on his clothes. He felt unbearably thirsty but he wasn’t about to tell Moran that. Moran sighed but didn’t seem bothered.

“Not much of a talker then? Strong and silent? I respect that. I’m quite quiet too, well, I used to be. Could never get a word in edgeways when Jim was around. Tell you what. If you and me have a natter, I’ll let you have some of this- Nestle- wait, what? This is Nestle! I didn’t know Nestle made water! Come to think of it, this bottle looks like to the Evian ones- maybe they just changed the labels. I don’t know, I just bought it at a pound shop…”

“What…” Oh god, his throat was so dry it felt like it was tearing. “What do you…want to talk about?”

“This and that. The weather. Popular culture. And, oh yeah, how your friend got one over on the greatest mind that’s ever lived. How did he do it, John? How did he fake his death?”

“I-I…I need some water…” John swallowed, hoping his parched mouth could produce some saliva to lubricate the desiccated cavern. To his surprise, his captor acquiesced, unscrewing the cap and tilting the bottle towards John’s lips. John opened his mouth a fraction, his eyes closing in relief at the feeling of cool water running over his dry lips. His tongue darted out and licked the water of them and his mouth opened wider. Sebastian tilted the bottle more and liquid poured down John’s throat, he suckled greedily at the neck, water spilling out of his mouth and running down his face. When he finished, he slumped back again the unforgiving back of the chair, relieved and sated.

“Alright then. Going to talk? How did a man fall to his death but go on to disable my employer’s network?”

John paled, Sebastian’s intensity exposing the gravity of the situation. “I- I don’t know.” At Sebastian’s scornful snort, John pressed on, trying to appeal to any sense in the man. “Seriously, I don’t know! I’ve asked him about it and he won’t tell me, he didn’t even tell me about the work he did when he- he left. He doesn’t like to talk about it.” Sebastian backhanded him without so much as a blink, but John grimaced through the pain and kept talking. “So you really don’t have any reason to keep me here- I don’t know anything!”

“Too bad, John, you seem like a grounded kind of guy, sensible, mild-mannered. But then you go and do a crazy thing like befriending Sherlock Holmes and that was your undoing. It’s not the fall I’m interested in. That was just one thing that rankled. I guess I’ll never know. No matter. You see, the real thing I’m interested in,” And here, Sebastian leant on John, leaning his elbow on John’s shoulder, looking somewhere into the gloom. “I’m after the master, not the pet. And what I’m going to do, is get Sherlock’s attention. He won’t be able to resist swooping in to save the day. And when he comes- I’ll kill him.”

Sebastian got to his feet, wiping dust of his jeans, and as he went to leave the room, John threw one last remark at his retreating back.

“This won’t bring back Jim, you know.”

Sebastian stopped dead. John saw his fingers curl, but when he spoke, his voice was calm, conversational, even. “I know that, John. Revenge is usually a reaction, not an action. This is just for kicks.”

“Oh good. Because I thought for a moment you thought killing Sherlock would drag that weasel-faced bogtrotter out of hell, where he’s burn-aaagh!” Sebastian had bounded across the room in his curious, loping fashion and now was laying into John with hard punches, his face tight and pale. John rocked on his chair and felt blood spurt from his nose. Sebastian stamped between his spread legs and pain exploded in the sensitive area. His eyes watered and he spluttered, falling to the floor. Sebastian had untied him.

“If you can beat me then you can leave!” Sebastian yelled, voice still perfectly blank. John struggled to his feet, some part of him screaming in his brain that he had to try and fight, all the while knowing that it was in vain. He lumbered forward, trying to punch Sebastian in the stomach but the taller man sidestepped it easily, grabbing John’s wrist and bending his arm back. John’s limbs felt like they were encased in concrete, he moved too slowly, stumbling like a drunk. Sebastian easily overpowered him and  his legs buckled, dragging Sebastian down with him. His hands were pulled behind him and Sebastian tied them together with cool leather, probably the ex-sniper’s belt.

“Nothing like a fight. Gets the blood up.”

There was nothing he could do. Sherlock probably hadn’t even realised he had gone. And by the time he missed him, John could be dead. John readily gave in to the exhaustion, his eyes closing. Anything to block out the feeling of shame and self-loathing he felt, lying limp as a doll, defeated.


End file.
